


ice's drabble collection

by futile_devices



Category: Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Multi, at this point this is mainly zelseph and fraldarddyd with a few other little things mixed, what is this ?? i dont know!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-11-23 05:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futile_devices/pseuds/futile_devices
Summary: for those things that are somehow shorter and less developed than what i usually post. random au thoughts or canon scenes or whatever the hell goes through my mind[pairings, relationships, and characters will be updated as they come, but will probably be the same few]





	1. the other side (zelgius, a character study i guess)

**Author's Note:**

> hello !!! this little piece was an intro for an event my rp server had. essential background is just a mansion of illusions/halloween ball. i figured it was a good way to start this off. something more substantial until i just use this as a damn dump for whatever short bullshit i write. even if this isnt short at all. also theres a type in here that reads "center of his chester" and i refuse to change it out of joke so just be aware of that. also a small reference to nyna because. they are friends. warnings for this would be: blood/injury, referenced character death, guilt, and emotional neglect, i guess

It is not a sight Zelgius can misplace. Even behind all the years, the time spent forgetting what his family ever looked like, sounded like, he cannot forget. He imagines that he would have, if his life had spanned longer than that of a soldier and a guilty man, in the ages beyond common beorc, that the faces of his siblings and his mother and his father would be washed away as waves upon the beach and spend eternity in the sea of all that he has left behind. But he did not have the luxury of a long life of happiness (but a long life without its appearance he had), one he would have surely spent beside his lord until the cold earth would bury him and he would reach rest of his own accord having lived beside the world and heard his songs. Yet of course, how can ever forget the formation of who he was underneath all the armor he wore to hide it? It is something no child could ever forget. 

His mother’s mask is a simple black, and perhaps her clear blue eyes could be seen on any number of heroes, there is a way in which he cannot forget the way in which her thin lips purse. Her stare is one that is branded in his mind, as if every moment he was in her gaze, he was put under scrutiny. It would have been better for her to ignore him out of shame and disgust as all others did, like his siblings and father had. A name he cannot remember, but Zelgius could never put the expression of utter horror out of his mind when he, only a boy of…-how old had he been? Eight years old or perhaps nine, or was it younger? Though what did age matter in this situation; the outcome remained the same- when he ran to his sister with frantic words over the marking that tainted his skin, how the inky wings spread from their perch on his back. Zelgius had never been adept in sorcery; he had no need to call upon the might of a Spirit in trade for some power that he could not even use. The same sister, a tall woman surely she became, but she appears the same way she did that day, soft features and soft curls that always looked too delicate for the harshness of Daein. His mind draws to flowers when he imagines her, though that may be the influence of the painted yellow roses upon her mask. 

His brother, a lithe boy and one of a sickly nature yet a bright smile despite the coldness of winter, dances with the sister of yellow roses, stepping slowly yet in avoidance of all the other pairs twirling on the dance floor. The next day, his brother refused to sit next to him, refused to look at him, hand him over what he asked as if Zelgius did not exist. For he was parentless, a branded, some product of blasphemy and deserving of hatred and isolation. No mind for the iron of bonds or laughter that they had once shared together- it meant nothing. Should he ever claim to be of their blood, plead for compassion, for love that should be given to a son, to a brother, they would simply jeer with a cold glare and tell him that nothing connected them. 

Zelgius wants nothing more than to escape their sight. The thought of fueling such shame in the eyes of his family- Zelgius does not claim to be an expressive man but it almost brings him to ruin. The woman’s voice that provides melody fades as his father turns to him, appearing beside the general despite the fact that the man had not been there a moment before. He could derive no warmth from the cool presence at his side. A lance is in his hand, for that is how Zelgius remembers his father- a warrior of a time past, told stories of his father’s heroism that became inspirations for his dreams. Though after his sister shrieked, he feared that lance being pointed at him and finding its purpose true in his chest for he was no longer his son. Yet the man in front of Zelgius, with stern eyes and a scar marring his left cheek, spares him but a glance, one that lacks the hatred of his mother or the fear of his sister. Simple acceptance, perhaps, or is it pity that faintly holds his countenance. A moment passes between the man and the illusion until, as the illusion reaches out, it fades away as if it was never there.

A frantic glance is cast toward the ballroom floor, to see his mother, his sister of yellow roses, and his brother, yet they have dissolved with diaphanous wind as well. 

If it is only in his mind, Zelgius does not know, yet the aria fades into the defined striking of drums in a meticulous pattern. There is no more voice as the military march begins with the accompaniment of bellowing horns. Strong rhythm matches his beating heart which pounds with the adrenaline of battle along the cadence of drums. Regiments of phantoms appear through each dancing figure, each musician or spectator, all souls pull from their forms and fill the ballroom. Transparent warriors, some armed with blades, lances and axes, yet others with pitchforks and shovels and downcast countenances. To the beat of the march, the phantoms start with rigid movements, yet this ballroom is not a battlefield. Against the soft light of flame the forms are translucent, glimmering through yet solid, painted in a faint white gray. Pale as the death that had claimed them, and for what reason?

Sent to war as pawns disguised as knights, believing in a purpose that only served the annihilation of what they attempted to protect. Empires and Kingdoms- what did they mean to those who gave their commands? Of course, senators move pieces upon the board for their own gain under the embroidered words of the apostle and soldiers are not to question, are meant to obey and nothing else. Yet still those senators are as useful, important as the pawns they believe they move. His master stands as player, positions and strategizing, political and martial tactics refined over a thousand years of seeing humanity murder and condemn and oppress each other. Zelgius knows himself as simply a pawn as well, as a sword for his lord sage to wield no matter the target, no matter how it might taint his steel or tarnish him, but at least Zelgius knows (it is far more than awareness; he would have no other place than in the palm of Lehran’s hand). 

Yet of these soldiers, who look upon him with only eyes of faith and trust, what do they have that is not ignorance and misguided purpose (in their eyes of course, for his master’s plan is anything but)? Those in the Central Army who idolized him, those simply in the Empire of Begnion, children who dreamed of the glory of battle and a larger purpose- they are ignorant to how quickly that veneer would crack if they knew the truth. Those who rallied behind the ruthless Black Knight, oh if they knew they were only being used, their desire for conquest warped by the wisdom of a flightless bird, if they knew that he cared not for the kingdom of his birth and all those who had shunned and shamed him. How little the people know, what shadows they are kept in- would they rail with outrage if they knew? Or do the pawns enjoy being used and left in ignorance- better to not know than be left with the knowledge that everything one has ever done was only the plot of someone better (someone who deserved the world yet was the world -what it should have been but saw it suffer at its own hand)? 

Faces march on, ones that Zelgius cannot place and those tugging at familiarity, knowing that he had once led these forces, inspired them, raised their morale even though the advantage had been lost. He knows he should recognize them, place a name to the way in which they grip their lance, he knows that there should be some sorrow welling in them for their fate, yet it in only rises in relation to himself and mute songbird. Zelgius is no model to follow, honorable yes and chivalrous, yet so much done by his hand and his master’s orders that allow for no repentance (not that he needed atonement from any goddess; his lord’s is enough). The pressure of battalions weighs as heavy as his armor, constraining and exhausting, yet the experienced and skilled general is the role which he was cast. Does he have no remorse for all those have died on his orders, willingly giving life for a man they did not even know, for an empire that viewed them as tools? Does it not strike at any humanity in him, or has he truly numbed himself to those he leads? In the end, a facade is all Zelgius is. 

But there is one countenance Zelgius cannot forget even in a land such as Askr, his words always ringing in the general’s mind, for how can one forget another who has so dedicated themself to one? The phantoms make their pace, marching on and around the ballroom and through the open doorways which lead to the gardens and hallways, yet Levail stands a statue in front of him, a stone in the sea of soldiers that coalesce and shift and undulate. Never leaving his side, never with any other thought than obedience towards him, and Zelgius cannot help but think it undeserved. “Last true knight”? His mother’s voice would like to tell him that if Levail had seen the mark upon his back, the soldier would not think the same, but who could speak for unconditional loyalty? When one would die for another, is that venerance limited and with exceptions? Or does it truly have no bounds even in the wake of immeasurable ignorance; was Levail truly so giving to lay his life for a cause he did not know, for a concept of purity and honor he created in his mind? He could not understand how the world meant less to him, how a man whose existence is only for the purpose of war and his lord, could be immeasurable. Were he an arrogant and vain man with nothing but his own achievements as stars in his eyes, he would see it as a compliment, a raise for his ego and yet it is only another weight, another plate of armor. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Zelgius can remember through the thin wall of light, Levail and a cutting shriek. A pegasus knight- Sigrun, and the lance piercing through him, and even though the tower room had been pounding with the cacophony of blades and the whirling of magic, Zelgius could hear the the clattering of his Wishblade to the ground as if the room was empty and silent. Whatever his purpose, whatever his beliefs, Zelgius cannot say that Levail deserved the death that he so willingly rushed toward. A good man, a truly good man, is difficult to find, and yet Levail stands in front of him, unwavering even in the crimson armor and the rippling crack at his breastplate. But words do not find him, and even if he could give flight to them, what are words worth to phantoms, would he know that regret lived within him? Would it give him any joy to know how his model of knighthood fell and for what reason? Because he had murdered the man who taught him, that it was not his intent and he orphaned two children? That he continued to seek out the child, to taunt him and haunt him? That his loyalty was not- Ah but Levail would not mind, would he, for what did kingdoms and empires matter when the world stood in front of him? When he had left the empire, his post at Gaddos, all for Zelgius.  
The drum cadence slowly fades and the woman’s aria softly takes its place. The soldiers, however, do not dwindle as flickering candlelight, but fall with the clattering of weapons. Levail is the last standing, who has never moved from his station, and simply salutes. Zelgius attempts to open his mouth, give final words that could not be given, that it had been an honor to have the soldier at his side, that he did not deserve all he was given, but Levail fades away before Zelgius can even think of the words. 

If fate could not be aligned in a more cruel fashion, his teacher stands tall. 

And in that moment, he is a boy again (though a boy is not something he has been since age eight- or is it the opposite?) frozen in place by the sight of his elder (thought not in truth. Zelgius had barely aged since his tutelage under the general). Gawain stands far off- across the ballroom, observing. No mask could ever cause the misplacement of the general’s natural confidence that only is about as obvious as the greatsword glimmering in the candle light. In Gawain’s wake, Zelgius is only a boy, wishing to impress, to be anything other than the brand upon his back but there is nothing more than he can do. All chance of redemption did he have anymore? What he had hoped for when pledging his life to Lehran (there had been more of course; the promise of togetherness, that the two would never be alone so long as the other lived); It died with Gawain. 

For a second, the ballroom fades away into a moonlit night, trees providing shelter for the sins he would commit. The uniform warps into heavy armor of its same color and in his closed palm appears Alondite whose weight extends deeper than simply the physical. Oh the rush of anonymity fuels him in a way he does not wish to think about, however the helmet may feel. The Black Knight, Rider of Daein- nothing at all like who he is- was. A familiar thought rushes through his mind, one that stayed with him each moment he followed Ashnard’s command, each soldier he fell, and in the sight of all those blades that could not even scratch the jet black armor he encased himself in- did this become him? In the end, was he only a slave to greed and wrath, lusting for the blood of any who had so much as wronged him, left him, who thought that they knew his limits and the isolation that so dearly captured his heart? Where did his armor end? Was it at his ideals, his honor? All the words he did not truly mean but crafted anyway? Was there any end, or did the moment he first donned the armor his lord had retrieved for him spelled the moment it attached itself to him, seeped into every part of him? 

There is a scream from steps away, a voice that cuts through Zelgius even if it does not matter to the Black Knight. One that, even had Zelgius only met the boy once (as he had) the soldier would remember. Is it irony or cruel fate that he should witness the death of another parent, yet this time his lord not here to erase the memory from an innocent mind nor Zelgius there to bring the body home and begin its burial? The medallion, as well, is no longer here. Is it even worse that Zelgius should be there both times, as if his presence only spelled sorrow for the young boy and would surely only grow deeper?

But the shout means much more to his teacher than to him of course. 

Zelgius takes a breath, and the image falls away. There is no forest, no glittering sky above them, nor the threat of death. The faint sound of violin catches his ear and he can almost hear Nyna ask for him another dance. Candles burn brightly upon their chandeliers and their mounts upon the wall, gold adorning their rest. Dozens of pairs dance on the ballroom floor, smiles sweetly showing and blushes red as they spin and twirl and step. Another breath. There no eyes on him for everyone has has their worlds in front of them- they cannot be bothered to spare a glance to a man who is slowly caving in on himself, not when the air is so light and the night goes in festivities. He is only figure in the background, a name to read in the history of a continent that holds no importance in this land. 

But in the next second, his gaze is drawn back to Gawain- no, Greil. A man older, a father wiser, and a Rider no longer. (it had made sense before; this land being a haven for the dead and those named heroes, certainly General Gawain would be counted among the numbers of Askr’s greatest warriors as it had Daein, but now-) The masked man staggers back, crimson beginning to pool and seep through the teal of his garbs painting it an awful violet at the center of his chester. It spreads further and further from the point where Alondite pierced right through him- a sight he had the luxury to avoid, a luxury his son did not have. Another shriek, cry, screech- whatever you call the desperation lining a son’s voice when their father falls upon them, bloodied, and the man who drove the blade standing with the moon barely creeping from behind the clouds she took shelter from to avoid the sight. 

It isn’t what he wanted. 

But it is what he gave himself. 

In this armor or even in his own skin, he cannot say that this had been his intent- no, expectation, was not death. What shields him, he had offered Greil it’s counter. It was not wrath nor hatred, though masked in the ebony plating it seemed nothing but, yet what did that matter? When Greil is carried on the back of his son for a mistake Zelgius made (a mistake, was that the right word for it? Surely in the years to come it became a greater one, knowing the truth of his victory- that it had not been rightfully won and the lack of resistance meant self impediment and not lack of strength. It confounded him until he learned the truth; he was a fool to think it would ever be so easy) his intentions matter not. A display of strength, a proving a worth, to know that in those 24 years since Gawain left Zelgius had grown stronger than Gawain had made him. Reasons that warped in his armor, on his blade leaving it devoid of its original meaning. 

All air leaves his lungs, leaves the open ballroom and Zelgius’s mind spins like it does in the heat of battle, when exhaustion begins to run its course and desperations pounds in his beating heart. The soft aria becomes discordant as the dancers collide and crash, run through and run over until the ballroom floor is left a mess in his head. Plates clatter and glasses crash to the ground in a crescendo ringing in his ears that sound the clashing of blades against armor. Moments Zelgius stands frozen in place as the chandeliers fall upon him, wax staining the soft fabric of his suit and flames catching on the cuff of his pants, and for a moment, he hopes it to consume him and all the roles he had ever played. It is a selfish wish to have, but the thought runs through his mind in a way it would never in Tellius. A second death would mean nothing in this realm, except for the lady and the queen who he holds in his heart despite his guarding of it. There is no army to lead, no maiden to protect, no continent to embroil in war, nor a master to serve.

And he runs. 

He runs to someone he knows will not be there. He runs to the one person who has ever mattered. He runs to where he can breathe and the flames can die down and his heart can calm its rapid pace. He runs to the world. (He has always). He runs to the silver light of the moon against the pale night and to the verdant hedges and the bleeding red roses and to the world. He runs to the cold air that rests upon his face with a familiarity and a nostalgia. He runs to anywhere that is not a testament to his crimes and faults and sins and mistakes, however evanescent the phantoms may be. He runs to soft whites and glimmering golds and the deepest of violets. He runs to skin pale as moonlight and a black deeper than the night sky. He runs to eyes of emerald green and he- 

A mask of raven’s feathers drops to the ground. 

Zelgius stops.


	2. visit (perceval/elffin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ah. hi this is chock full of head canons evenn in like. 6 sentences. im emotional abt perceval. lov those knights. i was cryijng in chem class abt this.

dindrane looks up at her brother, wide eyes and bright smile, her unkempt curls falling above her eyes, “percy, percy!” her little hands grasp his own. “Do you have any new stories? Please.” the war had kept him long enough away from his family, and what a family it was. perceval the eldest of them all, and their pride, too. 

beside him, standing a few steps back, is perceval’s prince, who merely turns to the knight with a wry smile, or at least, where his hand finds the back of the other’s form. “Percy, General?” mildain speaks through a fluttering laughter, the line of teasing ever present on his voice. 

a soft sigh comes from the knight, who lets go of one of dindrane's hand to beckon mildain closer. "perceval was too long a name for them, or maybe they simply didn't like it." (dindrane gives her brother a toothy grin, somewhat pleased with his answer.) 

mildain lowers himself, squatting somewhat close to dindrane's level (of course, he could not see that she was rather tall for her age, and he himself rather short). "i think i must agree with her. it's very charming. not as frightening as perceval the great knight." 

dindrane nods. "and he can be scary."

another laugh. "oh i am certain of it. one time he..." 

perhaps this wasnt the best idea.


	3. mage (zelgius/lehran)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi this uh ??? dragon age au ?? elf mage lehran and human (prob actually half elf) templar zelgius. if i had the motivation to actually write more, they would help sanaki, a daughter of the orlesian empress who is also a mage before , you know. anyway. i think i also had the vague idea of lehran being a sort of solas, but when i told that to my friend they threatneed to kill me so.

How long the two have ran, Zelgius does not know. Perhaps he could tell the time in each rapid beat of his heart or each gasp for air, or how little the tower pierces the sky in their wake. Barely visible, and the resounding march of his order has settled to the same volume as the nonexistent gale. His armor, emblazoned with a blade and blaze, seems so false upon him now, casting aside piety and obedience in the face of… of the mage who flees beside him, at a slightly slower pace than himself, which should only be expected given the divide between their physical statures. Maker, he’s going to be killed, isn’t he? Forgive his lesser graces and some passion strung impulse that drove him to betray the purpose of his very existence, forgive whatever quiet conversations the two had shared in passing and the fact that Zelgius believed it enough to commit what may as well be treason or blasphemy. Oh forgive him, he begs with each step and each glance to his side. But they have ran far enough, and the trees prove enough shelter and cover for a fleeting respite. No words are spoken between the templar and the mage as they slow their pace and fall to a lazed walk. The only exchange is their heavy breaths and awkward looks. That is, until twilight comes upon the two, and the mage, whose eyes carry a calmness rather than a frantic worry that Zelgius would have imagined in their solitary company, speaks and barely enough, a lilt of the breeze itself, but Zelgius supposes that only fits as well. “Are you afraid of me?” And is he? By all teachings, he should be, yet by all teachings as well he should still stand in that tower with his sword held in obedience and without second guesses. There should be fears of spirits and curses and forbidden powers, and yet-. “No.” and he is honest. “Are you?” By all lives, he should be. In the end, he had only been but a prison guard for those such as him. He should be detested or abandoned, be thanked and left before second thoughts overtake him. But the raven haired mage only answers with “No.”


	4. t'hy'la (zelgius/lehran)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so. one, i have no impulse control, and two i wrote this, probably hungover at 4:30 and i . hm. i have no defense for this. i just think vulcan!lehran is cute and you can kill me for it. idk why ive been on such an au roll for them, but i have and yall just have to deal with it. im so shucking sorry for this. and dont @ me but the existence of the word thyla has been killing me.

emotion. 

emotion is what lehran sees in that great beyond, those eyes of his other. staring out into the sky, little dots scattered across the abyss. lights to follow, a beacon to search. emotion had been something he was taught to cast aside, from the point of youth. emotion was illogical, to feel and look out with curiosity, to wish for warmth, to sink below anger, illogical. all of it, nothing to be gained from, nothing to reach further from it, and perhaps in some time, some youth in those hot desert sands, he believed it. ripped every feeling part of him out, tore out a beating heart for reason and pragmatism. she had taught him different, though that is a lifetime past. 

humans were so strange, he thought, the way they pain, the way they smile, so open and vulnerable. no line of reasoning in the way they feel, their ambition, their strength. it simply was. 

and lehran could never see that as wrong. 

his other, that one who lays on the ground next to him, bathed in the grass of some unknown planet (neither of them remember the name; lehran should but he doesn’t. too distracted, he thinks. a human emotion), keeps his eyes to the sky. a moment of silence passes between them before zelgius speaks, raising a hand and pointing to a star so far away, centered in a constellation (columba if he is remembering correctly, the shape of a dove). “do you think we should go there next?” he points to another. “or perhaps that one.” 

“t’hy’la” lehran whispers, turning over on his side to face zelgius. “anywhere, with you.” 

that’s not a very vulcan answer some part of him thinks, but zelgius has always loved that about him.“what does that mean?” zelgius asks, trying it on his tongue. “t’hy’la.” but it comes out strange, misspoken in comparison to how it falls from lehran. “i’m saying it wrong, aren’t i?”

lehran laughs. a very human emotion. sometimes zelgius thinks lehran is more human than he is, which is strange to think with the way he his cheeks burn green or the point of his ears. “yes, you are.” given lightly, never harsh or chastising. “it is us. we are t’hy’la.” 

“t’hy’la.” zelgius slowly repeats again, slightly improving on the pronunciation. 

“t’hy’la.” lehran follows, a softness in his eyes. “friend, brother, soulmate, lover. t’hy’la.” 

zelgius smiles. “or do you believe we should visit vulcan, t’hy’la”

“i believe so.”


	5. nightmare (elffin/perceval)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hee ho. this is uh? also for my rp group. jus a lil... y aknow. sometimes u just really miss ur knight but ur in askr and hes not. this started off as an actual reunion but then my dumbass brain was like. nope !!!!! you cant do that !!!! so. nightmare instead. im so sorry elffie

he’s lost his sight again. 

 

there’s… something in the distance, he can hear. hoofbeats heavy upon the ground, but restrained. coming forward only in a dignified march. the clang of blades against blades elsewhere, distant. magic fires, whirling and washing down upon someone, the fire licks, crackles against the surface. the wind sings a sharp song as an arrow flies and. someone screams

 

mildain can’t see. 

 

where is he. where is he.  _ where am i _ . 

 

he takes a step forward. 

 

his harp isn’t in his hands.  _ where’d it go… i wouldn’t have left it, where is it.  _ instead there’s a…. sort of staff, held against his chest, fingers wrapping around a pole where his instrument should be. it’s cold in his hand, but he keep its, afraid of letting it go. afraid of being alone in…

 

wherever this was. 

 

another step. 

 

its dirt below his feet, mildain can tell. and there’s shouting beyond. shouting and shouting and shouting that grows closer and its overwhelming. he wishes he could see. he wishes he could see so he could focus on  _ who _ is screaming and not the sound of it, the cutting edge and hopelessness in the drowning sob. 

 

_ “stand down _ ”

 

everything falls away at the sound of that voice “perceval?” mildain’s afraid he didn’t even speak it so much as he thought it, felt it. some quiet wish that he’s carried for a whole lifetime, carried even into death and in waiting for the hand to lead him out. “perceval.” he says it that time outloud and he says it again, holding onto the name. holding onto the idea that he could be here. “perceval, i-”  _ can’t see you. where are you? i’m not dead, perceval.  _ “it’s me _. _ ”  _ your bard, elffin. your prince, mildain _ . “its  _ me _ .”  _ you have to know its me. if you didn’t- _ “do not tell me a knight has forgotten the face of his liege.” mildain tries to smile, but it’s half hearted as his words tremble. 

 

its still black. its still dark.  _ why can’t i…  _

 

“i do not know who you are.” perceval responds, voice rigid. hard. nothing left of any weakness or light. mildain could excuse that for anyone else. no one else would know any different. 

 

mildain takes a step back. the hoofbeats get closer.  _ blanche, you must remember me.  _

 

“yes, you do, knight general perceval.” if he could hold that staff tighter, then he would, but it’s pressed against his robes enough so that he thinks it might just rip through. there’s no smile on his lips; there was barely one to begin with. “i am your prin-”  _ if i must swear it, i will. i am yours. _

 

_ “my prince is dead.” _

 

mildain is not sure whether he is lucky in this moment to not see perceval’s face, how cold it must look, how his eyes narrow, drawn to the form of an imposter. imposter to his liege, the man who died before he could be saved, the one who would lead him to empty fields and sing while he tended to his weapons. 

 

a sharp cutting of air.  _ his lance. _

 

“i’m not dead anymore, perceval, i never die-”

 

mildain can feel the tip of perceval’s lance against his throat, lightly, delicately, as if the touch of a lover. “ _ you are not him.” _ the staff drops to the ground. 

 

the world could very well end. that would be better. that would be  _ kinder  _ than this. 

 

“ _ percy. _ ” at least his vision doesn’t blur when the tears fall. “you… you could not have forgotten who i am.” 

 

the lance is pulled away. mildain doesn’t know how far.  _ remember. please. _

 

“i wished to tell you, when i was safe, but you… if you were endangered because of me. when i think that i could never tell you that-“ 

 

the lance runs through him. 

 

mildain awakes in an askran bed. 


	6. i want erinys in feh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. love erinys and i want to start writing with her, so i just wrote a lil thing if she were summoned to askr. please intsys add erinys fury ferry. i love her. also implied levinferry,

The breeze sweeps around her, a gentle touch, familiar, the caress of an old friend perhaps that welcomes her. Sings her songs of past days, those joyous palace days and skipping through hallways and those times, as well, when the two of them would sneak through the windows, the very same air guiding them, protecting them. Erinys can trace the notes in each falling leave, the flapping of wings, and the whistling air, but they are not the same. She knows this, for it is not as crisp, does not hold her with soft hands, or tell her that she is fretting for nothing and all shall be well. 

 

This gale is simply mute, and the memories are all in her head. 

 

Oh she can search all she wishes to, but wherever will she find what she has lost? Certainly not in this land, whose sky is merely a ghost, a replacement. Mute throats and tense air, nearly choking in flight and it is a miracle that through her thoughts she is still flying. Little angel of Silesse, where do you run to amongst foreign clouds? You cannot find the same shapes you once lost yourself too, staring up above with wide eyes of wonder and a guiding breeze beside you, who forged stories and tales in form of song. You cannot escape in the same cold, high enough to see the whole world and beset yourself in awe, thinking to memorize the rising of hills, the entire continent in your mind, and praise it in exploration. Oh angel of music, where do you hide, for put her heart at rest, let her fall to the earth and be held by the forests embrace. Do not leave her upon a thin string, as she rises with her force alone. 

 

_ “No, I am not looking for-” an exasperated sigh escapes her, tightly wound together in her frustrations. “I’m sorry, forgive me… He’s a bard, not a dancer. I don’t know of this… Inigo you speak of.”  _

 

Imitations give her no joy. Blood of Ced, heir to the breeze, oh legendary spirit, undulating in the sky, there is only one, and true, there is no kingdom of hers taken root in this land, but she is a knight. Only a knight and the  _ only _ knight, and duty has never been a weak motivator in the wake of the boundless future. War torn and bloody, corpses piled, whispers of betrayal broken records and is it so wrong to seek comfort, to seek safety, or to at least know of another’s safety. 

 

That other which has abandoned her, but Erinys could never paint it so other than in her quiet grief and longing. There is only one, and somewhere she must know it in more than one star. 

 

_ “Sorry for interrupting you. I’ll be on my way.” forcing her voice to some level of softness (for it is strange to hear herself in such melancholy) and ducks her head, a slight bow, and walking away. “Thank you anyway.” A bittersweet smile, knowing that perhaps angels do not deserve their wings.  _


	7. hi this is my dumb dw au (zelgius/lehran)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im. really sorry for this. you ever just rewatch something out of nostalgia and just. realize somethings. its 2019 anyway so like. who cares. time lord lehran ok .  
> and yeah this is probably a bit ooc but, au requires somethings changed, which does change a bit of character especially for zelgius where some of his actions cant be quite easily translated to a modern ish sci fi universe at least with the intent that i wanted writing this as a human Non War Criminal companion. regardless.  
> though i did have fun writing it,

if you would have told zelgius 6 months ago that he would be here, above a dying star thousands of years away from the home he ran away from, he would have told you were lying. 

 

well, of course, anyone would. especially zelgius. most certainly zelgius. 

 

there were a few things keeping the man from believing such a tale. firstly, the sheer absurdity of it.  _ above a dying star? _ how, pray tell,  _ how? _ he never even found such warmth in his heart for the sky and the stars and all that space (and how could he, after all, when he didn’t even know how to fill the space he held within him); to think he would somehow gain admiration and affection for the collection of little lanterns hung up in a part of the universe that his lifetime would never see in such a short span of time was insane. two, the technology and mathematics and physics and all that never quite made sense to him, but zelgius was absolutely certain that mankind was in no way capable of such travel at this day and age. three, it was zelgius. 

 

yes, it always came down to that fact, didn’t it? it was  _ zelgius. _

 

a little boy his family never loved, a brother never laughed with, a son never embraced. ran away from home thinking anyplace would have been better than hiding in a house from the monsters in the hallway, never under the bed. 

 

it was zelgius, someone who had decidedly declared his worth as much as a speck of dust underneath a much more beautiful beach. something so small, so worthless, so useless certainly did not deserve to see such grand displays of the universe’s might, of its splendors, of the ways rigid laws could create beautiful scenes. it was zelgius, who thought himself a sin. it was a sort of reconciliation he did not deserve. 

 

because that only brings up another important detail. that if you told him he was above a dying star, maybe he could come to believe, but if you told him he wasn’t alone, watching the nebulous clouds rage and expand and dance in their radiance, he would never. would walk right off, laugh for such an absurd claim, and maybe hold it in his heart for a few days afterward, a longing wish for absolution that he knew he would never be granted. 

 

but here zelgius is, above a dying star, with someone beside him. someone who had saved him in far more ways then their first meeting. someone who he, too, saved (and he would only admit it was for his strength, and not out of any other virtue of his person). 

 

“isn’t it wonderful?” that someone asks with a wonder of a person who had never seen a star’s expansion, with a glint in his emerald eyes that look to zelgius almost like a star themselves. that someone speaks with such adoration for the sight before them that they watch side by side, pressed against each other out of a little doorway with feet danging over the infinite abyss of space. 

 

that someone who’s name he caught only a few times, as if he were ashamed of saying it. like it dragged a whole planet down into the abyss, like it was screamed on the lips of thousands of dying souls. as if it were a whisper of a bygone lover, never to be said again. but zelgius knows it, though he rarely speaks it, finding it a too intimate gesture, too vulnerable, and he was above deluding himself to think he was arrogant enough to taint the name even further by having it soft between his lips. 

 

zelgius knows it wasn’t his first time seeing anything like this. zelgius knows he wasn’t even the first person that he showed something like this to. zelgius knows that, however fantastical, occurrences like this are commonplace when the whole wide universe and the whole of existence is but a flip of a switch away. 

 

the dying star sings a little song before it explodes, a melody of billions years past, of the time it saw gone by and the worlds it once brought warmth too. it sings a lament to the sisters and brothers it drifted away from, eons ago brought up together in the same nursery only to be scattered across space. the lyrics are in a language zelgius will never learn how to speak, but he thinks, he wonders, he  _ hopes _ that there is a stanza for the both of them, somehow, the two wanderers who gave the star company, ensuring that it would not die alone. 

 

he is breathless at the mingingly of color, at how the gases burst out painting the darkness with such vibrancy that zelgius almost forgets the black void around them, how they dance with limbs of stardust, how they sing in elements radiant and blinding. how he feels the heat of a dying star within him when  _ lehran _ leans against his form. 

 

zelgius can feel the heaving of lehran’s body as he breathes, can feel as his fingers curl around his hands and his thumb trace circles of a language lost to only him on the back of his hand, can feel the weight of a truth buried in the craters of Callisto and shines as brilliantly. 

 

“it- yes. yes it is.” zelgius manages to breathe out, too taken away by both wonders of the universe. of the warmth of it, even if zelgius knows how cold the empty space between is. 

 

lehran goes off on some explanation of the different types of super novas, energy radiation, complex matters of astrophysics that zelgius has accepted that he won’t ever understand. he listens to lehran’s voice instead, keeping his eyes set to the drifting mass of a star’s corpse, ignoring the way lehran’s fingers seem to spark off little stars on his hand, as if he could write a whole universe in a gentle touch. 

 

but he gets quiet, and zelgius thinks he’s only exhausted the complicated jargon and alien terms. which is perfectly fine. 

 

“i forgot how beautiful it was.” lehran admits after a few minutes in a voice as delicate as a moonbeam, not the passion and fury displayed in the remnants of a bold star. “the world passes by so easily, you don’t stop to look at the little things anymore.” 

zelgius wants to protest, saying the death of a star is more than just  _ little _ , but zelgius reminds himself, as he does seem to be more and more often, of what lehran is, of who he is. of why there’s a double beat against him, a dual drumming in his chest. 

 

“i didn’t think i would see it like this again.” the time lord concludes. “so, thank you, zelgius.” lehran squeezes zelgius’s hand for a second, then relaxing. 

 

“that should be my line.” he asserts, gaining a small bout of laughter from lehran. “it should. you are the one who brought me to the edge of the universe just to hear a star’s final song. i can’t even count how many different worlds we’ve seen, the skies we’ve been under. i should be thanking you. you didn’t- you can see all of this anytime you want to, you didn’t need to bring me along.”  _ you didn’t need to save me.  _ he almost says.  _ i didn’t deserve to be saved. _

 

lehran pauses. then he pulls away, sitting up straight. “do you truly believe that?” 

 

the answer is yes. zelgius doesn’t answer that, though. “what i am, what i’ve done, what i haven’t done- i’m not- i shouldn’t-  _ you  _ shouldn’t- i don’t deserve this. to see everything that you’ve shown me.” he says it well enough, but maybe a single yes would have been a nicer answer. 

 

“do you want me to leave you, then?” his voice is lowered, and zelgius almost thinks it quivered. 

 

zelgius answers just as quickly as he had before. without even thinking. “no. i only-”

 

“i don’t want you to leave either.”  _ but you will have to, someday. you will leave and i will be me, but not the one i want to be. i will bury you and cry with the same eyes that saw you first. or i will cry with new ones, and i will cry too for the memories that i once held in the palm of your hand and the curve of your arm that i will never feel again. i will cry the same way i cried for home. i will cry for you the same way because you have become home and you should have never. _ “zelgius, i’ve seen people at their very worst, i’ve seen the deaths of whole civilizations, i’ve seen so much hate and sorrow in the universe, and i know, more than anything, that you don’t belong there.

 

“i thought the world was lost. that there was nothing left to be redeemed, me along with it. and i found you, a man with no family only trying to survive, and what luck is it that he should be the one who teaches me to love the universe again.” 

 

lehran leaves him speechless more than the star did, more than anything other than lehran ever could. 

 

“so, please don’t.”  _ not yet.  _

 

zelgius takes his hand, this time, “i won’t.” he swears by some power he never thought existed. “i’m not going to leave you. not ever.”

 

and lehran leans against him again, trying to believe him. 


	8. so ive been thinking about dimitri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feth has come and consumed me and while i dont feel confident enough to post any full thing out pre release, i have been writing some short lil things about dimitri in the throes of hype and i felt like i should put them out there. 
> 
> theres like, 3 or 4 little things. theyre not in order or anything. 
> 
> uhh implied felix/dimitri. 
> 
> (the dnd one comes from a joke between a friend and me that the reason felixs "view of the prince has soured of late" is because of a dnd campaign the childhood friends have wherein dimitri plays an extremely lawful good paladin and felix plays a chaotic neutral rogue/fighter and dimitri always goes on and on abt honor and oaths and knightly ideals and felix "hates chivalry" hugo fraldarius gets annoyed by it.)

the holy kingdom of Faerghus is known for its knights, upholders of chivalry, honor bound and honor sworn. dimitri had always looked up to them, shining armor under the glistening sun, each tale of glory told never done for the fame, but for duty. he had seen ingrid with her lance, utop her pegasus, and could only see the ideal of a valkyrie, the height of all they heard of as little children and all they strived for each day. all of them, some day, even when they were true lords and ladies and even kings, would be knights underneath their new armor. _honorable_ knights of Faerghus, with oaths they would never break, with blades held to the goal of justice, never to do wrong. 

but the flames rise, burn away everything and leave it to ash. violet eyes are mocking as She watches them, oh hail the holy empress as she sets fire to everything in Her Holy Name, hail the holy empress as his soldiers writhe in pain, scream as the flames lick their skin and eat it whole. the fire spreads and catches those knightly oaths like a kindling, holds them with thin, bony hands and crushes them. it had been a long time since dimitri had still believed such tales, but there had always been a tiny, little speck of foolish hope. a hope that, too, is consumed by the flames. 

no, he hadn’t liked it when he learnt that those shining knights were fools, too, armor never worn to battle and flaunting their cowardice as bravery. shining armor never meant strength. 

his will be burnt, from the flames of Adrestia and the flames of Faerghus, a crucible of chaos that he lays within, burning. 

dimitri breaks, fully, completely, wholy and with complete certainty, carefully tended porcelain falls to ground, shattering into a million little pieces. _“kill them.”_ he rasps, anger and vengeance and too foolish dreams consuming him just like the flames. _“kill them all.”_

* * *

“i want to speak to them.” dimitri states, already reaching for his indigo d20 and rolling it. 

the professor gives a nod, shuffling through the player sheets of the cult leaders their current little band of mercenaries are struggling against, “what is it?” 

the die knocks into his glass of water (garnering an internal wince on dimitri’s part) but settles down. “nat 20. with modifiers thats-” the prince pauses, mentally adding the bonuses in his head. “26.” ingrid and sylvain, at least, give a little cheer. 

 _charisma is important._ he had tried to argue, one time. _it’s a roleplaying game. you need to talk to the characters._

byleth looks vaguely impressed, but the professor looks vaguely about everything. “go ahead, dimitri. talk.” 

he takes a deep breath. “must you resort to such depravity? to prey on innocents? to take from them what you can take without harm? your god will not look upon you and spare you. your god is not a kind one, not a merciful one; you will be punished twofold for your failure if you continue this futile quest. but, if you stop, lay down your weapons, atone for your sins, we can-”

but felix cuts in before he can finish. “professor, i want to sneak up on the cult leader and stab him in the back.” 

* * *

 

“Why the hell did you-?”

Dimitri would pride himself on being a well thought person, far more introspective than he would even like to be. He would remember every hour of training, every after-battle analysis with the rest of the house, every blooming bruise underneath his armor. He would remember it all, and yet Dimitri had rushed toward the blade of the enemy swordsman as if he longed for it with such a deep aching. Without thought, without reason, without needing to. 

The blade had slid off his armor’s side with an awful gritting sound. It did nothing more than knock him back a step. His lance had easily impaled the enemy, finding the body transfixed for a bloody moment, then falling, a shadow slumped on the ground. 

 _Rationalize it_. Dimitri orders himself . 

_You were looking the other way. Your armor would not have been able to sustain a hit. I am only doing what anyone else would have done. I was there to stop it. You’re still my friend, even if you think that is a lie. I need to prove that you. I need to apologize for letting you ever doubt that. Saving you may be the only way to save myself._

It is only a moment on the battlefield with a blood red sky. Dimitri can only spare a glance to the corpse, then to the swordmaster. “What else was I supposed to do?” It is earnest in a way that would never leave him, even after all that time. And he doesn’t wait for a response. 

* * *

the snow falls and falls and falls, and for winters in faerghus, even this is harsh. the little flakes crown his head, a frigid coronation in their night’s walk. perhaps it is the only coronation he deserves now, except for the dirt that will be spread over his body, buried underneath a pine tree in blaiddyd, next to his father, next to his mother, following the forest line up to the king of lions himself. a crown of bones, a crown of thorns, but when he was younger he had wanted one of porcelain, tempered carefully, delicately, with moonflowers painted on the spires. with a heavy step into the layer of snow, he remembers the sharp cutting scatter of a tea cup, and he cried and cried and cried, trying to fix it with bloody hands. 

he doesn’t remember when he stopped crying. his breath fogs up and he wonders if he ever stopped, and all this mess is just him wailing for his mother to hear his sobs and clean up all the pieces?

 _it doesn’t matter._ dimitri had sworn that to himself, ordered himself to believe it. _it doesn’t matter._  

whether it is easier or more difficult to focus on the man next to him, dimitri does not know. to even guess at it would require more skill than the prince has. it is well out of his ability to speculate, too, why felix had even joined him. a dozen quips or jabs or even breathless questions came to him, but dimitri did not ask them. loyalty be damned and oaths too and all those words dimitri clung to and felix refused. with the blood on his floor, dimitri did not expect anyone to stand beside him, with rags and gloves to wash the mess, least of all felix (oh and he says that with melancholy, as if that young school boy still exists with hopeful eyes and with a prayer of love). _maybe you’re still alone, beside me, if i am just the ghost of the friend you once cherished._

dimitri doesn’t say that. lions are courageous, true, but all he has felt lately is the cowardice of a cub, hoping others will think his claws are sharpened. “you’re shivering.” he says, flatly. it’s an obvious fact, one that likely felix will hate him for even mentioning. dimitri unfastens the clasps on his shoulders that hold his thick coat and tosses it over to the swordmaster. his armor is lined with furs, anyway. “put it on.” 

* * *

the prince of faerghus takes a deep (wavering) breath, looking down to the singular stems of flowers within his hands, then to the gaze of his three friends. if he closed his eyes, then he could see them all as they were ten years ago, little kids recreating stories in the books they read and running around the castle halls and hiding behind the statues. they could be so young, even as young as they were now, there are some shadows that even youth cannot shed light on or stains that cannot be washed away. it came down to that, didn’t it. “i mulled it over, and since this is our last day as students, _as blue lions_ , i need to thank you all before graduation.” his smile could not be described as anything but genuine. the sort of innocence that you notice out of how everything else pales in comparison. “you have stood by me longer than anyone else, and not without your own struggles, but you three have always inspired me and have made every day better with your presence, so i-” he lifts the three flowers up to emphasize “-thought of symbols of sorts to give you.” dimitri had thought about it for nights. nothing too gaudy, so as to not upset ingrid. something neat for sylvain. giving anything for felix is already a ‘no’ so it wouldn’t matter what he got. the professor had suggested flowers, and spent a day in the greenhouse with him picking each one. it had been more difficult than he originally expected (what with him trying to not upset himself with each petal that he accidentally ripped off) but he had ended up with the three he gives now. “ _please_ don’t give this to anyone else, sylvain. i don’t think any of your ladies want a second-hand gift.” dimitri laughs, handing over a red tulip to the cavalier. “something simple for our knight in shining armor.” he holds out the sunflower to ingrid with a smile. “and to felix, a gift he will surely keep for years.” his smile is more strained as he gives the sweetbrier over. it’s strange standing on ceremony, but he says, earnestly, “so thank you, again, for everything that you do and have done.”  



	9. im thinking so much about fraldarddyd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i lvoe them ok. i wrote this at 3 am when i couldnt sleep

against what strength of will dimitri has, he remains still with nothing but the sharp inhale of breath and pacing heart beat. he should turn away. turn away from the fingers that feather over the scar, from the eyes of amber that look to him, all that he has become and all that he has given up, with some ineffable emotion that he once thought conditional, from the warm breath clouding between them, from the tiny flame he didn’t try to ignite, so close to flaring even in their snow covered camp. he doesn’t turn away, even when something catches in his throat as the rest of felix’s hand rests on his cheek. dimitri only knows it by the touch, a warmth that he subconsciously leans into. felix laughs at that (finding it amusing; mocking, perhaps?), only barely. no one would have known it was a laugh, anyway, but dimitri’s only has two thoughts. one, that he has not heard felix laugh in what feels like a lifetime but he knows, reasonably, must only be 8 years, running through some hallway and dodging statues, and two, that he was not aware how much he missed the sound of it, a low little rumble and breath that sounded, much like the rest of felix, uninterested. dimitri is certain he is imagining the softness melting in felix’s eyes in tandem, if only for the fact that it is more suited to their youth and innocence; not who they were now, certainly not who dimitri is. felix, perhaps, if so much of the boy changed dimitri couldn’t tell other than subtle appearance (which must be noted that, on some level, the whole world looked different from his view point), and once more entangled in dimitri’s own web of struggles. the warmth is still there, in spite of whatever guilt wells in his chest at felix’s slowly moving fingertips, pads trailing kisses over the jagged edge of still-healing flesh. “you aren’t going to ask?” his voice is lower than he wishes it to be, rasping over the words, but all felix responds with is a simple, curt “no”. 


	10. nyna and zelgius would be friends.

Zelgius takes her hand once more, this time without initial complaint. The stars glimmered above them and the fire beside them. For whatever the cold air is worth, it had no effect on the queen and general. More often, Zelgius had been leaving his armor off during nights and mornings of peace and instead donning a thick coat that fell a little above his ankles (Lyn tried wearing it once; it dragged a foot around her). 

“Anything?” Nyna askes simply as if the word holds only a light weight to Zelgius. 

“Anything.” He is careful to not step on her toes, but he proved far more adept that he thought he would be. “If it is what my master wills, then he shall have it, see it, stand upon it.” 

There is little that Zelgius wants for himself (or that the world has told him he cannot), and perhaps the joy of another does not count but it is all he does want. It is heavy in his heart, though all such things in it are heavy- the corpse of Gawain, Levail, and all the others that he cut down or fell in his name, his family and the cold space they created, and the armor that he places upon himself and that he would refuse to take off except in the company of ghosts. 

“That’s a lot.” 

“How does one repay an unpayable debt? They cannot but try.”

Lehran had given Zelgius what the world denied him: companionship. And Zelgius had given the same to his master. Two lonely souls that did not have to be lonely in the company of each other. And a purpose, of course, a reason to live and the strength to do so. The prospect of a future that did not consist of shifting from army to army for eternity until someone noticed the age in his youthful countenance and forced him out with the shame he had never wished to see in another’s eyes. And one that would span for longer that it did, but one cannot stop the tidings of war, especially when one is the cause of such war. 

“I… I suppose so. But even still. I do not mean to doubt your honesty, but I’ve found few people who stay true to the meaning of the words everything and anything.” Nyna speaks softly yet discarding away the formal tone she takes up with most everyone. 

That is but a simple answer as well. “I’ve done worse on my own accord… I once thought that if I served my lord sage, I could…” somehow Zelgius matches her softness. “Be redeemed of the sins of my birth. Yet I only drenched myself deeper in blood on his will, but I suppose I was foolish to believe that redemption of any kind would be possible in the current state of our world, and that I did not have to be redeemed in order to aid my lord in his quest of making the world redeemable.” 

The queen is silent for moments following with her grip upon the general loosening, but she still leads. Until her voice breaks it, shyly and with hesitance. “What… did you do?” 

“You’re better off not knowing, Nyna.” 

Nyna stops the dance but keeps her her hands upon him. “Zelgius.” 

A deep breath. “These are not matters that I share, or ever truly had the opportunity to.” 

But Nyna only squeezes his hand. 

“I will not taint you with the knowledge of my deeds.” 

Nyna is not Lyn, reaching and extending to what others refuse to speak. There is no implicit whisper of reassurance that the lady seemed to exude with each word, each gesture. Lacking Lyn’s ethos, what could Nyna say to a liar? To say his truths and be done with them when all she had ever done is lie? 

“My apologies, then.” But Nyna says this with a solemn smile. “Shall we resume?” 

Zelgius nods and they continue their dance, both in physical form and around their hearts. 

Moments pass in silence between them with only the crackling of the slowly dwindling campfire and the faint sounds of crickets to cut through. Nyna cannot deny that her mind wanders to the late nights when she would convince Camus to take her to the ballroom of the castle’s palace and dance for moments that seemed interminable and Nyna only wishes they truly were. What she would give to simply live in those moments with war at the sidelines and love at the front, where pressure melted away at his touch and nothing else. 

Nyna finally breaks the silence. “Perhaps you can dance with your lord once he arrives… And when you can lead.” It is only meant as a jest, sweet in her smile but Zelgius cannot take it as such.

A question he asked himself each moment the sun rose or the he heard the faint singing of a songbird. Would his master ever arrive, a man who could not die descending to the land of the dead? Is it wrong for him to wish Lehran would stand in front of him as that would mean his demise (for he only wishes Lehran to live, but not alone; Zelgius in his heart is selfish enough to wish for a life only beside his lord yet Askr denies that as Tellius had before it)? Is it worse to wish for his life, then? For his master to once again live in isolation and sorrow, and no matter how beautiful galdrar are sung, with wounds that not even Serenes could heal? To live on as he had for thousands of years despite the countless of times in which he reached for the calm embrace of darkness. Which one was treachery? Did it even matter? Zelgius is not a man to ponder philosophy; it held no importance to soldiers who only follow, yet with Nyna in his arms once more he cannot wonder. 

Zelgius does not answer.


	11. dimitri PLEASE come home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i used all my orbs that i was supposed to use on elibe summer (since i have a thing about keeping the elibe roster completed--WHICH I HAD, UNTIL THIS SUMMER BANNER) on dimitri and he still didnt come   
> but u kno who did?  
> a hardin and kjelle  
> anyway, i was thinking about his feh lines and hopefully this is will work as extra luck in the days the come  
> his lines make me fear. so do edels and claudes.   
> this is pre release of course. warning for blood, suffocation, death,

it had come again. 

 

of course it does. it always did. as if the river did not cease, flowing from the ocean, flowing into, water exchanged but all the same. dimitri stands at the foot of it, washed in it. a sun that never set, a moon never rose. 

 

it always comes again. 

 

their faces, first. it’s always their faces. blood on his father’s face, crying crimson and tears as the blade transfixes him. the way his blue eyes seemed to shoot out, the garbled shout of  _ ‘run, please, run’ _ that played a broken record in a minor chord. but his father didn’t scream any more than that. even with wretched pain etched on his face, the king of faerghus was silent. he was silent when dimitri had stepped back in horror, shuffling away with blurred vision, he was silent when the assassins held back his hair and wrote a little poem on his throat with a blade, he was silent weeks after then lord rodrigue finally took him back to the castle, body rotten and a home for little rodents and insects that not even the little children would pick up and play with. his father was silent when they buried him on that line of pine trees, the dirt held in his own hand. 

 

but dimitri could never remember his father as silent. bold voice, bold tongue, the model knight and the model king,  _ oh _ dimitri could tell every story verbatim, with the same perfected inflection that the king would speak it in. he would watch with eyes wide with awe as his father showed him how to wield a lance and the little flourish to it. he remembers following him to council meetings, how confidently his father spoke with a mental note of  _ ‘that must be me, someday.’ _

 

his step-mother’s wailing sobs, his tutor’s shrilling shriek, the window panes shattering, the vases clattering to the floor, the sharp snap of someone’s bone all rise into a crescendo of pounding drums that dimitri cannot silence. it rings and rings and rings into his ear till it deafens him, overtakes him wholly till the panic is real again, and he is so young and so terrified and so helpless. there is blood on his tunic, there is blood on his hands, on his arms, everywhere till he is drowning in it, till it gets in his mouth and slips down his throat and he feels it suffocating, suffocating, suffocating him and it gets on his eye and a shard from the broken windows cuts his hands, cuts his arm, cuts a little mark over his heart, and one cuts in his eye till he is bleeding and crying and he cannot tell which one is which. 

 

it always comes again. 

 

his throat is tight when he awakens, slick with sweat and panting heavily and heart beating rapidly to a melody he heard in the screams and the bed sheets are all thrown off his bed and even still, it is hot. 

 

by the saints, it is terribly  _ hot. _

 

it doesn’t feel like  _ his _ body that gets up, as if dimitri is somehow separate, distant from the form that wipes his face with the lump of sheets that he picked up from the bedside and exits the dormroom, but the moment the cool breeze hits him, runs its fingers through his hair, he is present once more. 

 

but it is instinct, regardless, because dimitri already finds his way to the courtyard with heavy breaths, still trying to calm down the nervous beat of his heart. 

 

in picking up one of the training lances, he wonders if the only reason he dedicated himself so is because of how  _ lovely _ a distraction it is. but that would be false, wouldn’t it? it is his duty, but moreover, his desire. even if some could never understand that, how willing he is to put himself upon that blade his father took all those years ago so that he could protect what he had left. 

 

desperation is a dangerous thing, in the end, as he strikes one of the dummies, the polearm piercing a point between its shoulder and neck. he must not give in, no, he could not, because what are his people left with then? a fool who is willing to throw everything away that he so terribly tried to protect. being a prince is a difficult thing, too. 

 

justice is a lovely song, but what does it take to write it, to play it, to match every harmony, to perform every note? it’s all too confusing for him right now, in the throes of a ghost that begins to wail louder, so dimitri quickens his pace. 

 

he was always too slow, wasn’t he? to act, to speak, to understand that all the things he holds to his chest will devour him. one step swifter, and the lance strikes again, this time on the center point of the dummy’s neck. and again, and again, and again till his muscles ache and his throat cries out and he is exhausted but not enough to accept the lure of sleep. 

 

it always comes again. 

 

dimitri lets the wooden lance fall to the ground, and himself along with it, slick with sweat and panting heavily and heart beating rapidly to a melody he heard far too many times on the battlefield. 

 

he only has one question this time: what did he do to deserve this? 


	12. i keep on writing abt fraldarddyd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOMEONE thought it was okay to ask him who was the sun and who was the moon in this pairing. this is the result. 
> 
> also 3 days!!!!!!

he had never seen it before. 

 

that thought pulls all reality out from beneath him, whisking the breath from his lungs, choking on the realization that he was ignorant to some facet of (in a time past, he would say nearly himself, but dimitri has lost that right) his closest friend. it is as if learning you had a different name, as if every infallible truth merely crashed down and revealed some carefully crafted lie. it is learning a new part of himself, a new verse to a song dimitri thought he had memorized at age eight, breathless as they ran through a forest and he had tripped on a rock, and felix had laughed at him, called him clumsy, but had extended his hand out, and dimitri took it. 

 

had he seen it before? 

 

dimitri would not think so because it is  _ blinding _ , a distant star that perhaps he had hoped to reach, but had settled upon a worn down telescope and its mirrors, mapping constellations of a sky far, far away. he would have remembered it. dimitri knows he would have, because then those stars might have seemed closer. he would have memorized it, would have sung that song in some childish elation that the star would have scorned.

 

but he must be put to blame too, and the sheer distance between him and a figure in the sky was merely a factor in the walls he had perched the telescope on, on the moat he had dug with his own hands, with flags that read the same insignia of pride. a lonely castle, and a constellation etched in the night sky. no wonder he hadn’t seen it then. 

 

but  _ saints _ why now, in the wake of his masterpiece of brokenness?

 

because he is unforgivable, he is tainted, he is no longer gold painted in a bright blue sky. he is the fog that rolls in the hours before dawn. he is the pale moonlight, audience only to a darkened world. he is not the man he should have been. he is not the man he wanted to be. 

 

and goddess knows dimitri is not the man felix knew. 

 

he is the shadow, some imposter in the same body- broken- but the same. he has worn it down, has bloodied and battered it, had stopped the moment before it fell beyond recognition just to mock him. 

 

_ ‘save him’ _ the boy cries, held down with clawing hands ‘ _ save him because he cannot save himself’ _

 

damn it all, felix had avoided him even then, when he had mastered the art of artifice and still had the dignity to act as if he was the prince he should have been. 

 

but dimitri had noticed it, even beyond the hardened expression, the cold narrow of amber, faint, silvery scars that ran up his arms, that felix is, in some wretched familiar way, beautiful. 

 

it is looking into a mirror and a newly painted portrait all the same. 

 

perhaps it is merely the sun that rises to his back, crowns him in golden light that almost makes felix look  _ youthful _ again. almost. perhaps it is merely dimitri’s tired haze, his burning throat because he had lost count of how long they had been going at this, but felix’s eyes spell victory in their resolution and dimitri is  _ tired _ . he is tired of many things, but right now, he is tired of sparring and he is tired of felix and he is tired of himself and he is tired of this realization because he does not deserve this. perhaps it is merely the unwavering glare that doesn’t soften, that should never soften, that is so very like the boy and the man dimitri knew. 

 

he hadn’t seen it before, and felix is right, then, to call him  _ “fool. get up. we’re not done yet” _ , because how did he not see it before? 

 

dimitri cannot see anything else, in the sunlight’s ascent. 

 

  
  



	13. i cannot stop. writing abt felix and dimitri god

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was watching megamind while writing this. 
> 
> its titled "its been a long, long time since i memorized your face" in my docs because any pairing i have can and must be put to futile devices by sufjan stevens

it’s just a simple passing by in any other hallway in the monastery on any other day of the week at any time of the day. the kind of occurrence that you don’t remember out of how mundane it was. 

 

dimitri, of course, remembers each turned shoulder, each brusque look, each time felix had refused to even look at him. 

 

he remembers more, though, each time he had tried to follow with some warm innocence budding in his chest. each  _ i hope your day was well,  _ each  _ felix? felix! where have you been _ , each  _ i thought about that one time- _

 

and the silence, the disgust gleaming in his amber eyes, the  _ i’m busy, boar, find something else to do _ that always came after, and he would be left standing, wondering what he did wrong, because he had to have, right? the coldness would not have risen from an empty well. felix is a lot of things, but he is rarely without purpose. he is not one to waste energy on meaningless hate; felix is better than that. dimitri knows he is, but is that not worse? that he had truly wronged felix, that there is some irreparable divide between them, that dimitri had carved it himself, unknowingly. 

 

and he would never, if he had known. dimitri can admit that freely, because it takes nothing to do so. it is a desire so very simple that he knew so well. he knows it is childish, as well, because a king should never favor one subject over the other, that his benevolence should be equitable, that all of his people are deserving of goodness and prosperity and safety and love. he is more childish because he does not immediately cut out his heart with a sharpened knife, leave it on a table to say   _ ‘see, my life is not my own and i have always known it. see, i would have given everything for you, but i cannot. i should not.’ _

 

dimitri would never harm felix if he had anything to say of it. 

 

the scariest thing is, again, that he did. that he did and it hurt felix enough to make those inseparable years distant memories, like dimitri had only known felix for a little while. as if he should move on, say goodbye to the innocence of youth and what he foolishly still hopes for. 

 

yes, felix is so very right for calling dimitri such names of  _ boar _ and  _ animal _ and  _ fool _ . 

 

because dimitri still tries in the face of it. 

 

he shouldn’t, he knows, because he knows the answer, because he knows that there are things within him and things outside of him that clearly say  _ no, no, no _ . it is unfair to both of them. it is unfair to the shadow he keeps locked up, it is unfair to the throne he must take, it is unfair to the house fraldarius burdened with one son. 

 

but he is an animal, isn’t he? 

dimitri doesn’t think when he grabs felix’s hand as they pass each other in the hallway. self restraint has ran its course, and maybe it is the waning year, the overbearing silence that dimitri can no longer take. felix is not as fragile as him, anyway. 

 

“whatever i did,  _ please, _ felix, i’m sorry.” it doesn’t become him to plead so, to have his words dripping with unfounded regret. he is to be dignified, proud, a regal king and all those expectations. it is not his life, but he cannot allow it to be the end of what little of it he owns. when he can, because that clock ticks, and soon, the crown must be worn, the phantoms must be put to rest, and his own soul, too. 

 

but felix shakes away his hand immediately (and dimitri lets it happen, out of fear perhaps; another thing he is wrong about) and glares at him. “can’t apologize for what you don’t know.” 

 

“but i did do something, right? i did something to you and thats why you-” 

 

his friend turns away from him, but dimitri stays the same, looking at a distortion of himself. “give it up, boar, i’m busy.” 

 

and felix walks away and dimitri lets him. 

 

he wants to speak, though, he wants to say  _ please, tell me. i miss you as if i am missing a part of myself. i did not mean to do you wrong, and i know that means nothing, but please, believe me. laugh at me again, tell me all the things wrong with my stance, show me that i am still worthy of your time because if i am not then i do not know if i am worthy of anything. i am sorry for what i have done, i am sorry that i am blind enough to not see what i have done. if you would just sit down and talk to me. am i so repulsive? do i pain you so much that you cannot even wound me, stick your blade and run me through, lash your tongue with all your worth anger? what could have i ever done to make you hate me, felix? _

 

but dimitri lets him walk away. 


	14. more. fraldarddyd

it isn’t the first time they’ve slept by the other’s side. 

 

dimitri remembers an open field that they once ran out to at the edge of 11, buried themselves in the grass and laughter far too late in the night. dimitri remembers some tired haze after training and how they both fell on the floor, exhausted, slick with sweat and heavy breaths. dimitri remembers a long carriage ride to arianhod, where he had let his head rest against felix’s shoulder, dozing off under the melody of some explanation rodrigue gave from the reins. dimitri remembers silence and tears, both their bloodshot eyes as they counted their losses on small fingers, and heaving sobs against his chest till grief lulled them both to slumber. 

 

he didn’t think he’d get to do it again. 

 

the sheets are all thrown about, somewhere between the two of them, unneeded in the heat of summer air (at least, for such from faerghus). there isn’t much connecting them, either, other than a hand stray on dimitri’s chest and moments of movement that put them closer together. the weight of anything more would be too much for dimitri, steps close to the edge of familiar words, but it is enough, this quiet acceptance that asks for nothing more. it is in the wake of sins and atrocities and past misdeeds that silent forgiveness may begin, in the spell of some presence that is more dimitri’s own than his. 

* * *

“are you happy?” the man that was once dimitri asks, harsh and true, as if even on his voice, faultlines splinter through out. he spares but a quick glance, a helpless glance, a half second that is far too much, at the other. the other who always knew him, who always saw the depths of his horror, the truth behind his eyes. “are you happy, felix?” dimitri asks again, impatient. felix’s face makes him want to retch. funny, wasn’t that? he could almost remember felix saying the same thing. almost. it as if the memory is distorted, behind a haze dimitri cannot see through. was there fear, then, in every moment where felix would see him beyond all pretenses? did he feel hate for himself, knowing that soon, it would bubble up and rise. soon the rises would grow louder, soon they would come to him, ask him for offerings and sacrifice, soon he would not be able to live with them any longer. they would take his body and he would be but a vessel for their long gone wishes, buried in duscur. dimitri would no longer pretend, to hide behind so longingly behind such ideals. it was difficult, he remembers through that same fog, to want something that both sides knew the other did not deserve. he cannot stand the look on felix’s face, anyway, he should be happy. “you were right. i died so very long ago, and only you could see my corpse. does it haunt you, too?” he should have died. he should have, but the goddess hears no prayers, she takes no apology. the goddess watches from her throne above, for if she did not, she would have taken him. she should have taken him alongside glenn, alongside his father and patricia. now he can only ensure that the blood he spills will fill what hole they have carved in his soul. they will not quiet until he does so, and he can admit, that he simply wants silence. “i am a beast craving blood. you always knew that. or are you even more disgusted? horrified? do you wish to cut me down where i stand?”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
